Futuristic adj. 1.

denoting or relating to design etc. that is thought likely to be current or fashionable at some future time.

Life has an insistent inability to live up to the aspirations of the imagination: visions of the future stale quickly: the future arrives: appears just off the past: the off-white of the future: not silver: not fully automated. (The aspirations of an imagination whose only outlet was quasi-operatic spasmic tics: histrionically built up and broken down: higher up and further in.) What then of a futurism that isn't the mech-robot fetishism of Linkin Park or the Flaming Lips (though theirs is actually possibly retro-futurist chic, like Playstation 2)? A quiet futurism of return? A futurism which looks to the future rather than imagines it? A consciousness who knows there is. no. future. not one he could ever live in, just like he never found a present he could fully embrace: Billy Mackenzie. This is written in anticipation of Jonathon Dale's Associates epic: I have never heard the Associates and my only contact with Billy Mackenzie is one downloaded song: "When the World was Young": a cruel title: drenched in reflection: reflexiveness. I have never heard the Associates is a lie: I have heard one song: violently built-up urban pop-opera: sheer existential disco drama: pure release and flex: frightening, almost, in its lack of regard, it's lack of… reverence.

"Do-do-do-do, do-do-dooo-do-do-do, do-do-do-do" hardly complex or original: a doo-wop lead: such simplicity or sonic univentiveness can't hardly be futuristic, now, can it. Why must our futures be more complex and original? General trend? These are questions I hardly have answers for. I could probably further explanations for the various future-fictions that are common (robots, silver,Laptops etc) but that would be a felicity to far: stick to the song at hand: sweep up your room.

Backstop for the 'Magic of Pop' Metaphor # 6:

Nikolaus Gunther Nakszynski eventually grows up into equal parts Oliver Kahn and Gene Simmonds: one part Klaus Kinski: he gains his big break as Werner Herzog watches a film: he steals his attention by looking up: just looking up: relieving his head from his hand's rest and looking up: a second on a screen: a glitched glance: the slight look down as his head ascends is masterful: the eyes eventually moving up to meet the head's stop: a look].

"Do you ask a car crash for another take? Do you ask a volcano for another take?" No. I love Billy Mackenzie. Rest in peace.

Deerhoof - "Milk Man"

I forgot I had hairs on the back of my neck until I, until I... this music danced in my brain, just a woman’s voice and a guitar, a couple, with other stuff, between, then (recipe: half human, half japanese, some nothing-at-all, plus space, negative space, and dash upon dash after dash of happiness and excitement and joy, head up, legs apart, let’s dance!), then I start to want to know things, the first thing I want to know is why cleave a space in milkman, the second thing I want to know, it’s silly too, why marry deer and hoof, I know, I know, I have a psychopath’s view of the world, I’m not entirely sure what I mean, at any point in time, ever, I think, how do you guage the affordances of things, of objects, their weight, I know what I mean here, I mean books can buckle tables, that books have personal gravities or, songs can collapse a whole bedroom into dark distraction (‘distracted from distraction by distraction’), O no wonder I worry!, dense songs can torque time y’know, noses bleed, imaginary rail-tracks? they crack, I’ll walk a whole hour without moving, live a whole ‘our’ without living, deterioate, then die, destruction total, at the hands of a song, or band, almost, Deerhoof are sometimes this good, honestly that good, so good, sometimes not bad, then other times? bad, though never sad, yes I am aware I have a psychopath’s view of these things, commas? no, my worlds, not other worlds, I don’t look too closely to be honest, not at them, OK I do, but they sometimes have crotches full of patriotism (Toby Keith) or, so I can’t look, can’t stand to look; these are, actually, other Americas, I’m talking about other Americas, haha which I guess do count as worlds, I don’t mean it like that, anyway, Deerhoof, they didn’t discover slowness, and they’ll cede nothing to (that idea I liked from Farley:) the groundsman’s quiet by making, I mean scraping, noise developed over and over, in your (meaning ‘my’) memory’s darkroom, little stuck polaroids of streets you (meaning ‘we’) never walked, can you imagine we made sense of our cities, so hard!, perhaps, along ever-shifting Maginot Lines of taste and, we could, I mean maybe, maybe we could, maybe every city has a soundtrack, or each soundtrack finds a city, Los Angeles, London, Trieste, Luomo, these are all cities, with music - a light with no shadow cast onto emotions with no reserve - helps make sense, or comfort, of all of these cities, maybe, and happies you’ve never been, nor felt, you might feel them now, don’t sigh, Deerhoof aren’t worldweary, are you?, am I?, they’re an old springy mattress pummelled into the shape of a kid, and held firm, though political, by string, it’s so hot in here, I think I need a lie down.

Oh my